


In private, on her own time

by meatsuit



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Canon Compliant, Catra and Lonnie are awful hate friends, Catra having to bring up Adora in her internal monologue every time Adora is even remotely relevant, F/F, Gradual Sexual Awakening, Life in the Horde (She-Ra), Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, POV Catra (She-Ra), Pining, Pre-Canon, ineffective masturbation habits, sex ed in the Horde
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28779966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meatsuit/pseuds/meatsuit
Summary: Seeing Adora do something literally everybody else does shouldn’t reverberate like this, like the metallic clang of bo staffs colliding in an empty room.And yet. Catra is all too aware of the small, unassailable part of herself that wants to keep watching Adora, wants to hear her shivering little breaths again.Adora must be an exception.Theexception.--Or, how repressed desire for her best friend, an accidental case of mutual masturbation, and a surreptitious encounter with 200-year-old pornography forced Catra into an uncomfortable sexual awakening.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 146





	In private, on her own time

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place sometime within the year before Adora defected. It also contains a gratuitous amount of Catra just… thinking. About whatever. Mostly mundane Horde stuff. Tangents within tangents.

Catra watches the evening moon’s indifferent, constant mass shimmer behind acrid fumes, the forge boiling beneath her.

She’s here to brood, but she’s already bored.

She wonders whether Adora will come looking for her. Hopes, a little, that she’ll hear the clink of a grappling hook against the metal of the platform, see a dumb little blonde pouf popping up after it, and then Adora’s face—sweaty, out of breath, smug to have followed Catra here. As if she hasn’t done it hundreds of times before.

Being followed—feeling _missed_ —is the best possible side-effect of fucking off with no warning. But this evening, Catra had stupidly whispered, “See you after lights out,” to her best friend before disappearing from the locker room. That was an hour ago. Adora’s probably asleep already, confident that Catra just needed some time alone.

That’s what Catra has always needed, anyway, since puberty seized them and a new desire for independence began driving her into occasional fits of solitude. Catra had assumed she would want this after an entire day of tailing her best friend, of joking and wrestling with her, absorbing and amplifying all her goofy sincerity. Adora, too, had been playfully attentive for hours.

Now that she thinks about it, it was unusual that Adora didn’t look at least a little confused or hurt when Catra just _left_. Silent reflection isn’t in Adora’s nature; she always pursues when Catra pulls away, returning to her like the tensile snap of a rubber band. Maybe Adora’s only now discovering the benefits of solitary introspection? Is that why she looked so comfortable when Catra ditched her?

Suddenly, Catra is annoyed that she decided to fill her nostrils with whatever stolen Rebellion garbage they’re smelting this week instead of remaining enveloped in Adora’s scent. She should be curled up in their bunk by now, warm and snug, snoring at her friend’s feet.

She leans back on her palms, realizing for the first time this evening that her muscles are riddled with restlessness. It’s weird. She should be exhausted. Catra accomplished a great deal earlier that day: running through Whispering Woods 4 fast enough to break a record, sparring with Adora at least seven rounds during one of their free periods, pinning Rogelio _twice_ in combat training, sitting through tactics for an hour and a half without nodding off, suffering through a shower. She should need rest, space, and time to think; she shouldn’t want to pace and punch the air and provoke Adora into yet another wrestling match.

There has to be a reason she’s up here, even when she’s got nothing in particular to contemplate. She’s not mad at Adora. She can’t be. Today was good, the best in months. Maybe it’s something else, something more personal—

Then it hits her. Her aching body, the way she’s vaguely untethered, assaulted by a persistent, inscrutable desire for _something_ : it all adds up. She just needs to get off.

No wonder she doesn’t want Adora around.

_I’ll be doing that tonight, then_ , she thinks. _It’s been a while, anyway._

The decision harries Catra as she sneaks back into the barracks complex. She changes into her sleep clothes first, handling her locker with sheathed claws and the slightest of touches. She folds herself into a bathroom stall to pee, then brushes her teeth in complete darkness. Her excuse is ready in case she gets caught practicing dental hygiene after hours: “I forgot, okay? I can’t go to sleep unless I do it…”

Of course, Catra’s lights out routine—and the brief journey from the locker room to her squad’s barracks—goes unimpeded. She doubts she needed to be all that quiet. It’s not like some pissy Force Captain, saddled with nightshift babysitting duties for the crime of annoying Shadow Weaver, is going to catch her. The sucker on duty’s likely too busy wrangling bed-wetting three-year-olds to worry about the near-soldier who only needed a moment to herself after a hard day of training.

Nobody has bothered maintaining order in their squad’s barracks since they were fifteen, old enough to regiment themselves without incident. That was a good year for the newly ordained senior cadets. Once Catra discovered their newfound freedom, she began enthusiastically breaking her least favorite rules. At least the rules Adora wouldn’t give her shit for breaking. Mostly just the one fraternization rule Adora doesn’t believe in.

Catra pads into the barracks with a studied nonchalance as she surveys her roommates: all accounted for, most of them asleep.

Kyle and Rogelio are breathing evenly; Connor, Trish, and Farban are lightly snoring.

Grimora just sniffed, so Catra will have to wait for her. Ben isn’t out either; the poor guy’s likely being jolted awake every time Grimora turns over and one of her tentacles jams into the supports holding up his bed.

Lonnie’s also one of the stragglers, or at least she will be. She’s always been a really fucking light sleeper, and Catra suffers the misfortune of having an assigned bunk adjacent to hers.

Catra stops at the foot of Adora’s bunk. She is, of course, out cold. She’s got her knees up, leaving enough room for another person on the lower half of the bed.

Being close enough to watch her stillness seems a well-worn privilege. Adora’s bare feet are somehow still sticking out of the covers. She forgot to take her ponytail out again, and a thin line of drool on her cheek reflects the nominal light radiating from the door frame. Her soft breathing, the soapy smell of her freshly-showered skin, the angle of her slack jaw: they each fasten a veil of billowing certainty.

_Sorry, Adora,_ Catra thinks, adjusting the blanket enough to cover her toes. _Tomorrow._

It doesn’t matter how silent Catra is when she hoists herself up onto her bunk: it’s going to bother Lonnie. Catra’s knees press into the mattress as she crawls toward her pillow. As soon as she lifts up the covers and settles in? That’s Lonnie’s cue to start bitching.

The first indication she’s awake is a theatrical inhale, muffled a little by her pillow (she sleeps on her stomach; Catra has always wondered how she could possibly breathe like that). Lonnie presses her hands down, pushing upward, and snaps her neck to the side, ready to stare Catra down.

Lonnie has the same look on her face as last year when the senior cadets got wasted on contraband and Kyle threw up on her shoes: simultaneously bewildered and pissed. She squints, as if that’ll help her weak human eyes pierce through the near darkness.

“Why are you sleeping up here?” Lonnie rasps, her voice a thick mud. She makes a point of darting her eyes down toward Adora, lingering there a second before she snaps her gaze back up. “Trouble in paradise?”

Her sleep-burdened tone makes the question sound genuine, but Catra understands it for what it really is: a taunt. The kind of oily observation Horde soldiers use to saddle their peers with the shame of being knowable. Transparent. Weak.

Lonnie doesn’t get to understand her and Adora. She’s not a part of it. It doesn’t belong to her. She doesn’t know shit.

“Fuck off,” Catra hisses. A surge of petulance drives her foot outward, where it stops halfway between their bunks. She knows Lonnie can see at least the outline of the kick, and that’s what matters.

Fatigue renders Lonnie edgeless: she only grins and throws her middle finger up in whatever direction she thinks is Catra’s face is in. She then flops over, pressing her nose back into her pillow.

Within seconds, she’s snoring again.

As Catra’s anger subsides, she realizes taking Lonnie’s bait could have disturbed half the barracks; her gut wriggles and her ears twich as she scans the room for changes. There’s nothing: a relief; she would have to wait longer otherwise. Incredibly, Grimora sounds like she managed to conk out in the middle of it.

Adora’s breathing differently, maybe, but in a way that is consistent with her sleep fighting. Also, if Catra’s altercation with Lonnie had roused Adora, she would be whisper-yelling “Catra,” or “Are you awake?” or “Why are you up there?” like she always does when she’s shaken from sleep this early in the evening. It’s good that she’s not awake, then. Catra would hate to have to ignore her and make Adora think she’s angry when she really just needs to fuck herself to sleep.

As annoying as it is for Lonnie to point it out, sometimes being mad at Adora is absolutely a reason to avoid her best friend’s bunk for a night. She’s such a well-rounded, perfect, obedient little soldier. Sanctimonious, occasionally, and in these instances Catra needs her space. She hates lashing out at Adora, the guilt that always lurches up afterward.

Exhaustion is another reason Catra might sleep in her own bed. Though no authority figure has admonished her about the habit for a very long time, Catra still waits for at least half the barracks to drift into sleep before she coils herself as quietly as possible at Adora’s feet. After an especially grueling day, she’ll pass out before she’s able to crawl down.

Illness, a third reason. Either it’s Adora, laying prone in her bunk and stifling her coughs, or Catra, folding herself up under her thin standard-issue blanket and desperately trying to sweat it out. When it’s Adora, Catra will run errands for her, squirrel away ration bars for her, wake up every hour or so to make sure her best friend is still alive—that sort of thing. When Catra catches a cold, Adora inevitably hovers, popping her head up throughout the night to ask if Catra needs water or a bucket or something to sneeze into. She’ll rub Catra’s shoulder and check her temperature every other hour: too nervous, too near.

Masturbation is the last, and perhaps most common, reason. The preferred outlet for the Horde soldier’s lustful urges—or at least it’s supposed to be. Catra remembers her squad’s sex ed instructor five years ago advising them to “get off in private, on your own time,” whatever the hell that meant. None of the squad asked how they could possibly “masturbate discreetly” when they practically slept on top of each other, but it was an unspoken question that rang out into the awkward silence of the rations period following that cringe-inducing assembly.

One of the Horde’s more confusing cultural idiosyncrasies is that this activity is supposed to be less embarrassing than getting sick. This never made sense to Catra: one of them is _voluntary_ sweating, heavy breathing, and annoying the shit out of your barrackmates; the other is _involuntary_ sweating, heavy breathing, and annoying the shit out of your barrackmates. And the involuntary one is the most shameful?

Catra’s over wishing these mores were reversed, though. She’s gotten better at hiding cold symptoms, and her squad has significantly improved their discretion while taking care of their _needs_. Also, in Catra’s opinion, masturbation is amazing. The best possible way to take the edge off after a long, grueling, soul-sucking week. Better than raking her claws through metal. Better than sparring with Adora, even. Catra would never get caught—has never _been_ caught—but still. She’s glad she doesn’t have to choose between touching herself and avoiding possible punishment.

Okay, Ben’s breathing has evened out.

She counts to ten. The room is still.

_Yes. Finally._

Catra rolls over onto her back, the mounting anticipation for what she’s about to accomplish thawing her aching limbs. Her blood vibrates with a familiar thrill as she presses her palm flat against her stomach and slips her fingers under the waistband of her sleep shorts.

She can already tell how good this is going to feel. She might even have a friendly conversation with someone other than Adora tomorrow.

When Catra runs her fingers along her folds, she’s surprised to find the skin dry, neutral. She nudges at her clit: a waxen, toothless nothing.

She sighs, her teeth clenched. More waiting.

Catra takes a risk and lets her mind wander, stroking herself lightly, idly. She doesn’t like to think about much, on principle, while masturbating. Sometimes remembering her day will turn her off, and she’ll have to take a break to clear her head again.

Today was good, though. No Shadow Weaver in sight, and Catra spent the whole day with Adora, who had been pleased to see her take all their duties seriously for once. It was a whim, really: being on time, playing the battle sim straight, no snarky asides during demonstrations, no dirty tricks while sparring.

Catra does this sometimes: reminds herself that being the ideal soldier is well within her grasp, if she really wanted it. Not that big of a deal. But the way Adora looks at her when she cooperates—all open-chested pride and gleaming, unchecked smiles—is certainly a perk. Catra would consider playing the game more often if the cards weren’t stacked so high against her.

It _did_ feel like sweet justice when she cleared the Whispering Woods 4 obstacle course faster than anyone after lunch that day, Adora lagging three full minutes behind her.

\--

_“Damn,” Adora had panted, always the affable sportswoman. “I’ll never beat you past those trees.”_

_Behind her, Lonnie was still scaling down a wall that was supposed to mimic a rocky cliff; she was glowering over at Catra. Jealous. Ha!_

_Catra's ego swelled, her chin edging up. She managed to quell the roar of victory rising inside her enough to appear aloof about the whole thing._

_“Guess I was born agile,” she said, thumping her best friend’s shoulder. Adora bent over to rest her hands on her knees, still trying to catch her breath. “Don’t feel bad about it. You never had a chance.”_

_“Right,” Adora wheezed, grinning. “Sure I didn’t.”_

_Lonnie jogged across the finish line, avoiding Catra’s smirk the entire time. Rogelio was near the top of the cliff side and descending fast; he’s a quick climber, if a sluggish sprinter. Kyle, as usual, was nowhere to be seen, perhaps unconscious in a fake bush._

_Catra eyed Cobalt, the attending instructor. He should have reported her time by then. She couldn’t stand how agonizingly slowly he was tapping at his pad._

_“Good work, cadet,” he finally said, looking right at Catra. “You set a new record for this course. Eleven minutes and six point eight seconds, sixty-three seconds faster than the previous record. Lord Hordak will be pleased to learn of this.”_

_A broad, toothy smile spread over Catra’s face, her cheeks heating with satisfaction. Her tail lifted, curling up at the end. Triumphant. She couldn’t help it._

_Lord Hordak will know her name._

_For just one moment, Catra let herself imagine leading missions, making decisions, and commanding her squad alongside Adora, both of them Force Captains. Finally treated as the equals they are._

_It’s a beautiful fantasy, but Catra can’t live in it. Adora will get the promotion no matter what, and she must win Hordak’s respect before she’ll have enough clout to haul Catra up to her level. If that means a few years working under Force Captain Adora, so be it. Adora is the only person who values Catra’s potential, anyway._

_“You’ve got a free time block, cadets. Use it wisely. Tactics is at 1500 hours. Dismissed.”_

_Cobalt strode away. Rogelio began hissing something about finding Kyle when Catra felt two strong hands jostle her by the arms. Adora was in her face, the sweet scent of her sweat flooding Catra’s nostrils, her always-so-clear gaze electric with excitement._

_“You broke a record! Catra, that’s amazing!” Then, softer, “You’re amazing.”_

_Catra waited for the inevitable “when you try.” It didn’t come, and Adora wasn’t implying it, either._

_She meant it this time._

_Adora’s eyes dominated Catra’s field of vision, reflecting teal in the sickly light of Whispering Woods 4._

You’re amazing.

_Catra’s face softened, her skin tingling with warmth; in retrospect, she probably looked like an asshole. Adora just beamed back at her, all candid earnestness, wrapping her arm around Catra’s shoulders. Her easy embrace conveyed, without words, the oath they had sworn to each other on so many nights, laid up together and whispering into the darkness. Catra could feel it radiating from her own body, too._

Us.

Us, until the end of the world.

_It echoed between them even after Catra shoved Adora’s dopey face away and laughed out an entirely too fond, “C’mon, loser.”_

\--

Lately, Catra has felt an exquisite truth scenting the air around them all the time.

An all too certain future. Together, Adora and Catra will run the Horde. Obviously. Who else could ever match them, cut them off from their right to power? Etheria will tremble before them, too, their prowess undeniable. Where Hordak falters, Adora and Catra will conquer. Then, side by side, on top of the world and in utter control of their destinies, they’ll finally be safe. Free.

_Oh, there it is._

Catra has successfully bided her time. Her clit has decided to cooperate, the pressure of her fingers conjuring a warm, thrumming pleasure. It only took about 45 seconds this time, which is a pleasant surprise.

_Good. Yes._

Liberating her mind of all its chatter, she shifts her focus to amplifying that energy. She moves her hand down to her opening, where she knows she’ll be wet— _yes, good_ —and swipes some upward to better lubricate the slide of her fingers.

Her own slickness feels delicious. It’s building, but she’s shit at letting it happen; she’s always in a rush to get there. After only a few strokes, Catra clenches her muscles in anticipation. Shoving her fingers hard against the skin next to her clit, she barrels forward, pushing rapid circles into the sensitive flesh there.

She thinks it would be worth it to go slower, sometime—take it easy for once—but tonight, Catra is perfectly content to rely on the tried and true. It’s already late. She just wants to get off and go to sleep.

Her lower body tenses as her pleasure builds. By habit, Catra straightens her legs and pushes them together, practically trapping her grinding fingers between her folds. She started doing this when she was younger as a strategy to maintain her dignity: it made less noise, and at first glance she would look more like she was asleep than if her thighs were lewdly akimbo. Now, riveting her legs together, flexing her muscles, pointing them downward through her toes—this is merely how she does it.

Her fingers hammer harder, faster; she’s starting to feel raw. The almost painful jolts of ecstasy coming with each pulse signal the beginning of the end. Catra lets out a long, low sigh: ready for it, chasing it. Her free hand jumps to her breast, and she’s lifting her hips up every time she pushes against her clit, and—

_Nnnnh, good, so good, that’s so fucking—!_

Catra lets herself lose a little control, just for a few seconds. She can’t moan; not with all these assholes in here all the time. Instead, Catra muffles her gasps by closing her teeth around her forearm, the fine fur there tickling her nose. It doesn’t matter whether she miscalculated and someone’s awake. None of these motherfuckers will ever overhear Catra’s most private ritual. She’s _polite_ like that.

Her fingers still when their attention becomes unbearable. She breathes out, letting her aching limbs relax. This is enough for Catra, for now.

Her clit is still throbbing. Catra suspects it can take more, but she can’t risk it. Every time she’s tried past this point, her body starts betraying her: her vocal chords threatening to release a whine loud enough to echo against the metal walls, her hips eager to buck hard enough to rattle her bunk. The very idea of obliterating all her vigilance like that is mortifying.

As she lets her loosening muscles sink into the mattress, Catra wonders how soundproof Force Captain quarters are. Not for the first time, she thinks about the luxury it would be to masturbate alone, free to test the limits of her own pleasure.

Through her daze, Catra realizes she’s still between her own legs. She drags her hand to the side, damp fingers still under her sleep shorts and resting on her hip. She floats, eyes fluttering closed, purring just a miniscule, her inner monologue surrendering itself to nothingness…

But a rude interruption keeps her from entering the soft embrace of sleep.

Below her, Adora is puffing out a shuddering breath.

Catra’s eyes snap back open, suddenly alert. The sound is too quiet for the other cadets to register, but Catra’s gifted ears can distinguish ominous changes in Adora’s breathing no matter how much the barrack’s hulking, ancient central air system wheezes at night.

Now she hears a tiny gasp, all shaky and delicate.

Guilt floods Catra. Of course Adora’s having a nightmare the one time this week Catra stole away to her own bunk. Now it would have to be a whole _thing_ to ease her through it. Instead of simply curling her tail around Adora’s ankle, Catra would have to jump down, which would startle her awake, and then Catra would have to hide the hand she used to touch herself and worry about whether Adora can tell… ugh, it’s too much. She won’t do it.

She heaves herself onto her stomach to peer down into Adora’s bunk, anyway. She has to check on her, at least; maybe she can just snap her out of it from up here—

_What?_

The way Adora is spread across her bed is immediately confusing. She’s on her back—not her side, like usual. Her long legs look alien in a vague diamond shape, her thin bedsheet shrouding the lower half of her body. Her thighs are splayed wide open, and both of her knees hang off into the air, the mattress not wide enough to accommodate them.

Adora’s strange form trembles for a second, her head thrown back, mouth contorted open. Her arms are plunged under her sheet; Catra’s eyes follow the line of them. A pocket of fabric between Adora’s legs rises once, descends once. Rises again—

_Oh._

Now Adora shakes, then seizes, then shakes harder, her hand continuing its steady gyration. Her breaths are labored and stuttering, as if she is shivering in the cold. A huff, and then all movement stops. Her limbs rest limply where they fall.

Adora’s face reveals itself, flushed and slack, eyes still closed. She breathes out a long sigh; not one of contentment, exactly, but a sigh that indicates satisfaction at her own exertion. Like she just sprinted up a flight of stairs and is glad her calves are pleasantly sore.

Her eyes slowly open, half-lidded and unseeing— 

_Shit._

Only when Catra has jolted back up, retreating to the safety of her own pillow, does she realize how cold the metal of the bed was, how sharply it cut into her collarbone as she bent over the side. In the metal’s absence, an uncomfortable heat rushes across her face and chest.

_I watched her for too long. That was like ten seconds too long._

A foreign shame assaults her, pressing her ears back against her head. Catra should have looked away when she first realized what was happening, and she didn’t, and now she knows what Adora looks like when she… finishes doing that.

How could she have known? Adora never does this. The year before, Catra realized her best friend was the only person here she _hadn’t_ overheard masturbating, and since Adora can’t do stealth for shit (not, at least, against Catra), she figured her bunkmate never developed the same habits as the rest of them.

Below her, the soft rustle of sheets. Adora is probably rolling over. The sound makes Catra flinch.

_Fuck, why is this such a big deal?_

It’s not like Catra hasn’t spent several hours over the past five years pressing her pillow into her ears, waiting for someone—usually Lonnie—to stop _fucking sighing_ and making _unspeakable wet noises_ so she could get some sleep. Catra doesn’t hold it against Lonnie, not really; not when her keen ears are to blame, when Lonnie and the others would extend Catra the same common courtesy.

Seeing Adora do something literally everybody else does shouldn’t reverberate like this, like the metallic clang of bo staffs colliding in an empty room. It seems an inescapable fact of life: only four feet between everyone’s flimsy bunks, so much tension to release after long days of training, and nowhere more private to take care of things. Of course you try to wait until everyone around you is asleep, but sometimes you figure wrong. It _happens_ , and when it does you’re supposed to _ignore_ it. Mild irritation is also an acceptable response, as long as you keep it to yourself.

It’s not like she has a choice in the matter, but Catra would prefer not to hear Lonnie touching herself again. Or, ugh, Kyle. Connor in the corner? Gross.

And yet. Catra is all too aware of the small, unassailable part of herself that wants to keep watching Adora, wants to hear her shivering little breaths again.

Adora must be an exception. _The_ exception.

This new insight sings too much to reassure her. It is a brilliant hum of certainty that resonates like a trick, like an obstacle ready to scold her for tripping.

She can’t engage with it.

Catra instead opts to rummage for other motives to justify her curiosity, examining and discarding reasons as quickly as she had considered troop formations during that afternoon’s tactics lesson.

Was it because unlike other knuckleheads, Adora is apparently discreet, and Catra isn’t used to the inconvenience of her bunkmate touching herself?

Was it because Adora was doing it so differently, legs splayed so openly, her hand moving more slowly than Catra, ever impatient, can manage on herself?

Suddenly, with foreboding clarity: was it because Catra liked that Adora had been getting off at the same time as her?

Happened to be getting off at the same time. It had to be a coincidence. Adora wouldn’t—

Catra twists her body perhaps a little too violently, facing the wall.

_This is so stupid,_ she fumes. _Adora’s business is Adora’s business. This time belongs to her._

This time had first belonged to Catra, not Adora, but that can’t be helped now. Schedules clash, and coincidences run rampant. How Catra happens to feel about it doesn’t count for much and is not worth considering.

The matter is closed.

It takes almost an hour for Catra to fall into a fitful sleep.

\--

At the sound of the morning siren, Catra seethes. She’s stiff and irritable as she jumps to the floor, as she avoids slamming her stretching limbs into the bodies of her graceless roommates, as she lurches to the locker room to pee and change and thoroughly wash her hands, as she trudges through the cafeteria to grab a ration for breakfast (brown, of fucking course).

Catra feels like coarse sand is being ground into her brow when Adora looks at her with obnoxiously enormous, alert eyes and tries to bounce sparring tactics off her. She’s talking with her mouth full like an idiot. Catra tells her this. She then manages to drum up some interest for Adora’s sake, though her hiss at Kyle’s stupid interjection into their previously one-on-one conversation is more poison-laced than is typical.

Even after breakfast, her hunger sated, Catra’s mood is shot to shit. It’s as if the previous night’s Catra hadn’t managed to get off at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can also find me at my brand-spankin’ new fandom twitter [@meatsuitiest](https://twitter.com/meatsuitiest).
> 
> I tend to be precious with my writing; cutting that out is my new year’s resolution. If you enjoyed this fic, please let me know! It will motivate me to be less of a perfectionist as I write the next chapter.


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